Nicodemus started again as he took the old man’s meaning. A glance down the hall showed him that Amadi Okeke was still watching them. “Magister, I’m sorry. I had a nightmare last night, and I didn’t get enough sleep. And this news… it’s all so confusing.”
“Quite understandable,” Shannon said, resting a hand on his student’s shoulder. Azure let out a low, grating squawk. “Damn it, not again,” Shannon complained loudly. “Nicodemus, help me again with Azure.”
As soon as he began to preen the bird, the old man mumbled, “Tell me briefly.” Nicodemus described his nightmare as quickly as possible. When he had finished, Shannon muttered, “In the dream, were you ever two persons at once?”
“Yes!” he whispered. “Each time, right before the dragon attacked, I was not only the dragon but also an old fisherman or a solder’s wife or a beggar girl watching the dragon. But the beggar girl didn’t see the dragon; she saw a black cube hanging in the sky.”
Shannon grimaced. “You were having quaternary thoughts.”
Nicodemus looked at the old man to see if he was serious. “I thought spellwrights could reach quaternary cognition only with powerful texts cast about their minds.”
“The murderer claimed he could manipulate dreams. I thought it was an empty boast, but now I remember history texts describing ancient spells that could invest sleeping minds with quaternary thoughts. It seems this nightmare was sent to you.”
“So, if it was sent to me, I couldn’t have caused the dragon to attack the city?”
“Correct,” Shannon said with a slight nod. “Quaternary thoughts change perception, not the world. It’s vital that you know you did not cause this.”
Nicodemus let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. “But why would he send me such a dream?”
“I don’t know. But it does imply there is a connection between the murderer and this dragon. Damn it, what if the creature is sending dreams to the other cacographic boys? How can I protect them from that? Regardless, tell no one of this. We will talk more in the compluvium.” He squeezed the younger man’s shoulder.
Azure stopped her grating roar, and Nicodemus fidgeted with his sleeve as a thought occurred to him. “Your family, Magister, has the Trillinon fire affected them?”
Shannon smiled. “An old friend sent a message in the last colaboris spell. My relatives are safe. Thank you for your concern. Now then, all of the deans and masters have been called to an emergency council, which is troubling because our lectures must continue. My boy, I need a favor.”
Nicodemus’s eyes widened. “You want me to teach a class? Magister, I’ve wanted… and I’ve practiced… but I don’t know if I can do my best under these circumstances.”
Shannon nodded. “I know, you’ve waited for so long to teach and get the chance now of all times. Today’s news might make this seem like a trivial task, but it is vital”-he squeezed Nicodemus’s shoulder meaningfully-“vital that you make a good impression. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Magister,” Nicodemus said, remembering what the grand wizard had said about the sentinels watching him.
“Good.” Shannon released Nicodemus’s shoulder. “Given today’s news, no one will object to your teaching. The neophytes are all squeakers; not a one over thirteen. Your disability won’t interfere. The classroom is in Bolide Hall, third floor, western side. Outline the basic concepts of composition. After class, go to my quarters and get as much sleep as you can before the midday meal. I keep an hour bell and the passwords for my door in the classroom’s closet. Use both. You must be rested for our work this afternoon.”
Though the terrifying news had fully awakened Nicodemus, his eyes still stung with exhaustion. “Yes, Magister.”
“When you wake, eat your midday meal and find me.”
Nicodemus exhaled. He really was going to have to teach a class despite the day’s terrifying discoveries.
Shannon laughed softly. “I know it may seem impossible, but you must forget everything happening today and become lost in the lecture. If you enjoy the teaching, they’ll enjoy the learning. Are you nervous?”
Nicodemus admitted that he was, though “shocked and overwhelmed,” he said, “would be a better description.”
Shannon grinned. “Understandably so, but don’t let the students know or they’ll devour you like a pack of lycanthropes. If anything, you want to err on the side of being cavalier.” Shannon was famous for his emphatic lecture style.
Nicodemus decided to emulate his mentor’s style. That meant somehow bottling up his growing fears and hopes about the prophecy.
“Well then,” Shannon said with a nod. “Off with you, then, or you’ll be late.”
Nicodemus turned for the stairs.
“Oh, I just remembered,” Shannon called after him. “You should know that one boy raises a bit of trouble and…” The old wizard’s voice died.
Nicodemus stopped and looked back.
Shannon was frowning. “You should know this boy, he may be a cacographer.”
CHAPTER Thirteen
Nicodemus jogged through shafts of sunlight that poured in from rectangular windows. Outside the hallway shone a sky so blue it might have been enameled. The crisp autumn air smelled of smoke from the breakfast fires.
His first composition class and he was going to be late.
He tried to focus on the upcoming lecture but his mind wandered. The real world did not seem real. Northern sentinels were investigating him for murder. An inhuman killer was hunting him for reasons unknown. His lost hope of fulfilling the Erasmine Prophecy was returning. And in response…
… in response, he was going to teach introductory spellwriting to squeakers.
It all seemed insane.
Magister knew what he was doing, he told himself while turning a corner and dashing up a broad staircase. After all, he was the cacographic apprentice, Shannon the grand wizard. Clearly he should handle the thirteen- year-olds while the old man dealt with the truly fearful forces of zealous sentinels, academic factions, and inhuman murderers.
Just then he reached his classroom door and stepped inside. The room was orderly, square, filled with rows of desks. The walls were white, the arched windows wide.
However, the two dozen students dressed in neophyte robes were in chaos. The boys huddled around the windows. Some were yelling, apparently to another unsupervised class in the next tower over. Others were spitting out of the windows, undoubtedly trying to hit the sleeping gargoyles several floors below.
The girls had congregated on the opposite side of the room. Most sat at their desks, arguing or laughing. A few were playing a game that involved singing and clapping.
“Oh…” Nicodemus heard himself say, “… hell.”
The room fell silent. As one, two dozen childish faces turned toward him.
It was then that Nicodemus realized he had been wrong: Shannon was not dealing with the truly fearful. The terror that sentinels and murderers might induce-great though it might be-was nothing compared to the dread inspired by two dozen prepubescent students.
“You’re not Magister Shannon,” said a pale boy with a mop of brown hair.
Nicodemus most certainly wasn’t. The old man would have marched into the room, blustering with jokes and commands. He would have had the squeakers racing for their seats in anticipation.
“I’m Nicodemus Weal,” he announced with a confidence he did not feel. “Magister Shannon’s apprentice. I’ll be giving your first lecture on composition, so take your seats.”
Shockingly, the neophytes went to their desks. The boy with the brown hair raised his hand. When Nicodemus nodded, he asked, “Why don’t we have Magister Shannon? Where are all the wizards?”
Nicodemus cleared his throat. “Magister, like the other wizards, has been called to an important council.”
